


Tawdry Dreams All Come to Life

by detritius



Series: You Know What They Do To Guys Like Us In Prison [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Coercion, Forced Eye Contact, Forced Masturbation, Hair-pulling, Handcuffs, Humiliation, M/M, Manipulation, Non-Consensual Touching, Power Imbalance, Restraints, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-06 13:24:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5418692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/detritius/pseuds/detritius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. Chilton has had enough of Will Graham's impertinence. It's time to change the rules of the little game they've been playing. Set after Hassun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started this months ago, but season three pretty much derailed my regular fic-writing activities, so I never got around to posting it until now. I don't even remember why I decided to write this, just that I wanted to do a power play fic, and I was intrigued by the idea that, in his smarmy, misguided little head, Chilton believes he's the good guy here. It was certainly interesting writing Will from his perspective, so hopefully it'll be an at least somewhat interesting read.
> 
> Title is from "Fire Editorial" by The Mountain Goats.

Graham slumps insolently before him, shackled to the table. He wears his chains the way some men wear cuff links. Dr. Frederick Chilton sets his mouth in a tight line, folds his hands over the top of his cane, and tries not to let his resentment show. At first, he made some pretense, fiddling with a clipboard, watching Graham out of the corner of his eye. Now he stares openly. It doesn't matter -- it's not as though Graham ever deigns to look at him. As usual, his gaze is fixed and distant, boredom and scorn in the set of his mouth. Those full lips... Dr. Chilton clutches spasmodically at the head of his cane. He's unsteady on his feet, pain flaring in his side. Something about Graham -- the infamous, ruthless Will Graham -- makes him feel his missing organs the way an amputee, stumbling, will clutch for a rail with an absent hand. It seems like the cruelest of ironies that this murderer can sit here well-formed and whole, somehow graceful in his shapeless jumpsuit, while Dr. Chilton struggles for balance and sweats under the collar of his Armani shirt. He tries to shove his anger down, to quell the seething thoughts behind his eyes. As though it matters what he might show, as Graham looks past him, through him.

Dr. Chilton is skilled enough in his own field to know, on some level, that he's projecting. He can taste the bitter gall at the back of his mouth. It isn't jealousy, exactly. Graham is hardly in an enviable position, but he has become so sought after in the past few months, so _desired_. Nearly every notable figure in academic circles has come calling on him, wanting to look at him, listen to him speak. And Dr. Chilton, ever generous, escorted these luminaries through his facility, refused them nothing, only to be treated as little more than a doorman. Graham performs for every one of them, groveling for Dr. Lecter, toying with Dr. Bloom, dropping cryptic hints for the FBI. To Dr. Chilton, he says nothing, only radiates cool contempt, seeming all the more haughty as Chilton tries to choke down his humiliation. His position has brought him so close to the most prized research subject in the entire psychiatric community, and yet here he is, unable to claim a single original insight. Graham means to make him a footnote in a story that should be his to tell. It's enough to make his blood boil. Graham is his patient. Graham should be _his_.

Well, today all that changes, here in this little room stripped of surveillance equipment. He has been more than patient. He will give Graham one last chance to cooperate on his own terms, and if he refuses, this game they've been playing will have to change. And Graham will quickly realize that he doesn't get to make the rules.

Dr. Chilton takes a breath and shifts from foot to foot, steadying himself, easing the pain in his side. "Am I to assume you will continue to spurn my attempts at treatment, Mr. Graham?"

Graham doesn't say anything.

"I suppose you think that... sideshow was some kind of coup," Dr. Chilton says, "but let me assure you, a mistrial will only delay the inevitable. You will be tried again, and the prosecution won't be so foolish as to call the likes of Crawford or Lounds to the stand a second time. They will find credible witnesses; I have proved myself to be one --"

Graham snorts, and it's all Dr. Fredrick Chilton, a distinguished man, a man of means and taste, can do to keep from grabbing him by the hair and slamming his smug face into the tabletop.

He takes a breath and feels it twist in his diminished guts. No, he will not indulge in such... brutality, satisfying as he would find it. He'll show Graham that he, at least, cannot be reduced to a ravening animal.

Instead, he circles Graham with slow, calculated strides, all control, ice in his veins. He pictures a thin sheen of frost riming out from the places his cane touches and feels his lips curve into a grim sort of smile. 

"You do yourself no favors, you know," he says, passing behind Graham's back, raking his eyes over him, his view unobstructed. So much better here than in the cages. "I could help you, if you would let me. Or I could make things... unpleasant for you."

The tapping of his cane is sharp and metronomic, and he can see, now, the tension in Graham's back as he resists the urge to track him. No bars to hide behind. No effective barriers now. Chilton reaches out and runs a finger down the curve of Graham's spine, listening to him hiss and clench his teeth, fighting to keep his composure. _Not so aloof now, are we, Mr. Graham_ , he wants to say, but no, the words will give him something to focus on. Let him sit and await the next touch, not knowing when or where it'll fall. Satisfaction curls the corners of Chilton's mouth as he passes in front of the table, Graham's darting eyes following him. On that circuit, he doesn't do anything, just listens to Graham's ragged breathing, his own shuffling steps and the clicks of his cane, the trembling silences between. Anticipation builds and coils beneath his navel. He passes out of Graham's eye line and, in a sudden motion, raps the table hard with his knuckles, the sound splitting the air like the crack of a whip. Graham's flinch, his startled intake of breath, are deeply gratifying. Psychopaths don't feel real fear, of course, but like any predatory animal, they can't abide the loss of an advantage. Chilton means to impress upon Graham that he isn't in control anymore. 

Before Graham has had time to recover his equanimity, Chilton strikes him between his shoulder blades and -- just for a moment, as though his step had faltered -- bears down. Then, as he rights himself, a lingering touch at the back of Graham's neck, just below the join of his skull. Graham shudders hard, pulling at his chains, involuntary vocalizations spilling from his lips. He's as undone as Chilton's ever seen him, his whole body trembling, making his restraints rattle. Unable to resist a parting shot, he snares a lock of hair and tugs before he moves on.

In front of the table again, he centers himself, standing while Graham sits, looming over him. Graham is trying to bring himself under control, his hands clenched and white on the table in front of him, but he's still twitching, asymmetric expressions flickering across his face, his breathing spiked and sharp. His usual _sang froid_ lies at his feet in pieces, and Chilton can't help smirking down at him.

"Now that I have your attention -- and I do have your attention, don't I, Mr. Graham?" He takes a casual half step forward, and Graham flinches away from him. Chilton shows his teeth in a wolfish grin. "Do you want to know what I observed during that farce of a trial?"

Still no answer, but at least Graham's eyes are on him now, seeing him, really seeing him.

"I watched you while I was on the stand, watched you look at me as though I was an insect. Nothing I said..." He rests one hand on the table, hears the grating sound of metal on metal as Graham drags his cuffed hands away. "...touched you." He straightens again, both hands folded atop his cane, and watches Graham fight for calm. "You're very practiced at keeping your face blank, aren't you? You'd have to be, to go unnoticed for so long. It takes a distinct physical threat for me to even get a rise out of you. But Hannibal Lecter walked into that courtroom, and you looked like the dead danced on your spine."

He sees Graham's jaw clench, a muscle in his neck working, and that's all the invitation he needs to continue.

"What, exactly, is your relationship with Hannibal?" he asks. "That's something that's been troubling me, and not only because of your exceptional reaction to him. You play him like you do everyone else, of course, but..." A dramatic pause here, and he ensures that Graham is hanging on his every word. "...he's devoted to you. I saw it when he testified on your behalf. I suppose even a man as learned as Hannibal Lecter must have his blind spots. I think he genuinely believes that you are innocent." He gives Graham an ironic little smile. "And yet, the second he turns his back, you're telling anyone who will listen that he's a mass murderer. Such ingratitude! I wonder how he'd feel if he knew you were continuing this two-faced little crusade of yours." Graham's features contort. He looks mutinous, and for just a moment, Dr. Chilton sees the killing rage he always knew was there. Then Graham's eyes go dead, like a shade snatched down. Chilton grits his teeth. "I doubt he'd be so complimentary at your next trial, and then there'd be nothing left to speak for you but the evidence, and the evidence says you killed five people in cold blood." He leans forward, close enough to smell the cheap hospital soap on Graham's skin. "I expect they'll give you the electric chair. Virginia's one of the few states that still allows it, you know. Have you ever seen what happens to someone when they're electrocuted, Will?" 

Graham doesn't say anything, just stares down at the bolt holding his chains secure. Probably imagining it, the sick fuck. Probably getting off on it.

The thought of Graham hardening under the table makes Chilton's breath quicken, and it's with anger as much as oily loathsome need. That this man -- no, this - this _creature_ \-- can make him think, make him want... His hands jerk and spasm on the tabletop. He wants to reach for Graham again, but he's afraid that if he does, he'll do something all those agents and visiting psychiatrists won't be able to overlook. People in and out all the time, Chilton can't leave a mark on him. But if he doesn't strike back somehow, he thinks the big vein in his temple will burst. 

"It will be a shame if they decide to have you killed," he says, with forced nonchalance. "At least, before we've learned all we can from you. A dreadful missed opportunity, but I suppose it can't be helped. If our sessions to date are anything to go by, I could have you under my care for months, even years, and not have anything more than conjecture." The bitterness drips from his voice, but he's beyond caring if Graham picks up on it. "And while Dr. Lecter's worked more... closely with you, the beliefs he holds about you make his conclusions misguided at best." A flicker of something crosses Graham's face. Chilton continues as though he hasn't seen it. "A shame. His... history with you would be invaluable in cracking open that twisted head of yours." He pauses, as though the thought is only just occurring to him. "Perhaps he'd be able to provide more useful insights if he understood the extent of your duplicity." There. Something moving just beneath the set of Graham features, a tic in his cheek, a change in his breathing. Chilton leans in ever closer, pressing his advantage. "Shall I arrange a consult, Mr. Graham? Sit him across this table from you while I play back every. single. one. of the things you've said about him?"

Graham's face goes bloodless. "No," he breathes, "no, don't, please."

 _Please_. Chilton savors it.

"Why not?" he asks, affecting indifference. "He and I are colleagues, after all. No one could fault me for confiding in him, especially about such a difficult patient."

"I- I won't be difficult." The words spill from Graham's lips, tumbling over each other in a rush. "I'll cooperate with treatment. I'll do anything you want."

 _Anything_.

Dr. Chilton had only meant to vent his spleen, as it were, to rattle Graham, to see if he could be rattled. He hadn't thought to expect such an unparalleled opportunity. There's a ghastly eagerness in his voice as he asks, "Anything, Mr. Graham?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Duh duh duh! Stay tuned for Part Two!


	2. Part Two

A long, breathless silence. Graham's eyes are fixed on him, the doe-eyed look he usually reserves for the women so taken with him that they let themselves be deceived. "Give me the tests," he says at last. "I'll take them all. I'll tell you whatever you want to know --"

Chilton raises a hand, and Graham goes silent. "Early in your stay, that would have been enough to buy my favor, but now..." His mind is racing, heat and flaring triumph, but not enough to drown the pain. "You've humiliated me in front of my peers. I need more than the assurance that you'll cooperate. If you want me to keep your confidence, certain... concessions will have to be made."

"What do you want?" Just the hint of a whine in his voice. Chilton swallows, his mouth going dry. The onrush of power is heady and sweet.

Seized by the impulse, he pushes Graham's chair back, away from the table, unfastening the bolt holding his restraints so the chain hangs slack between his wrists. Leg irons... he should have leg irons for this. But he can't countenance the delay, not when he's come this far. Breath seething into him, shuddering and hot, he says, "For now, I want you to touch yourself." 

Psychopaths don't feel shame, either, but a creature as proud and vain as Graham can be lowered in his own estimation, made to feel debased. And sure enough, Graham is regarding him with a mixture of incomprehension and disgust. 

"You know what I'm talking about, Will," Chilton says confidingly, resting a hand on the back of Graham's chair and leaning in, the proximity making Graham squirm. "You think I haven't heard you in your cell after lights out? I make it my business to know what's going on in my hospital. I'm charged with your care. You could be hurt, those choked little noises you make." Graham shudders, and Chilton's close enough to feel it, his own body almost trembling with anticipation. If this keeps up, it won't be long before Graham notices how very... compromised he's become. That'd give him another angle to work, and however tempting it is -- how degrading he would find it, groveling and simpering for a man who, he's made it clear, he finds too far beneath his notice even to hate -- he can't have Graham trying to seduce him. Dr. Chilton cannot risk falling under his influence, as so many of his esteemed colleagues have. Regretfully, he puts some distance between them and leans back against the wall, aloof. "Go on, now." 

Graham's eyes are downcast. Slowly, so slowly, he undoes the buttons of his jumpsuit, revealing the standard-issue tee shirt underneath, his fingertips skimming over the fabric like a blind man's, searching and tentative. His lower lip is caught between his teeth, the furrow between his brows getting deeper with every faltering movement of his hands. At last, the jumpsuit sags open and his head hangs down. He stops there, his eyes creased closed. His expression is like a painting of a martyred saint, as if he was gutted instead of barely undressed. Chilton has to roll his eyes. Graham must think he's an easy mark, if he believes such an obvious display will have any effect on him. Impatiently, he taps Graham's knee with his cane, making him spread his legs. "Take out your prick. I want to see it."

Swallowing, the muscles of his shoulders and neck pulled tight, Graham hooks two fingers under his plain white cotton briefs and pulls them to the side. His other hand still lingers protectively over his groin, and Chilton considers swatting that with his cane, too. But Graham moves of his own accord, sliding his errant hand down to his thigh, fitfully stroking the drab fabric there, his other hand white-knuckled and braced on his knee, leaving him exposed. After all that, the organ itself is something of a letdown, pale and flaccid as it is, but the dull red cast to Graham's face is gratifying. "Get yourself erect," Chilton says. "Think about those girls you killed." Graham flinches and jerks his hand away, and that small, instinctual movement discomforts Chilton in a way his earlier show of reluctance did not. This looks too much like human grief. But he dismisses it. He knows the man can perform at need -- Lecter and the rest must have seen something in him. Roughly, he says, "Think about... whatever it is you think about, then."

There's a heavy silence, and resentment in Graham's eyes. Then, warily, he lets his eyelids lower. His head tips back, exposing the long line of his throat, and slowly, so slowly, his hand starts to move. Just his thumb at first, circling his darkening head, the rest of him concealed in the loose fist of his other hand. Graham's breath hitches, a soft little faraway sigh. He squirms in the chair, lifting his hips, sliding in the circle of his fist. Each lingering stroke gets longer as he starts to fill, and his cheeks look less pink now, compared to suffusion of color visible between his fingers. His face works, his mouth moving soundlessly. His chains clink with every tiny motion. 

Chilton's breathing roughens and shallows as he watches, though he makes every effort to seem unaffected. Graham is... there isn't a word for what Graham is to him at this moment. The low, dull ache he felt before builds and swells, and he feels the tightness in his chest, the uneven beating of his heart, with the same sharpness and clarity as the growing heaviness between his legs. Just watching Graham's cunning hands brings that out in him. And his responsive prick, fuller and harder with every motion, drawn out by those skilled fingers, curving up into his palm... Chilton can't look away. The sight of it resonates with something raw and discontented in him, a sour note struck at his core. How long has it been since he got himself off with anything other than vague distaste? When the urge comes on him, he gives in to his body's demands, but with little grace, and even less real pleasure. The act has become one of self-recrimination, rushed and furtive and deeply unsatisfying. Now, seeing the attentive way Graham handles himself, Chilton is strung up and held suspended by repressed and profane longings. He wants to ease his own pants open, relieve the pressure there, maybe give himself a few light, quick strokes, just until can breathe again, just for some relief. But more than that, he wants to make Graham touch him.

Graham is fully erect now, he has to be. His hands move steadily over his impressive length, falling into a practiced rhythm that alludes to many nights like this. His eyes move under his closed lids like a dreamer's, his face turned mobile and expressive, so unlike the Will Graham that Chilton's come to know. He looks younger, almost innocent, and more alluring than ever, the bastard. He's struggling not to make a sound, gnawing his lower lip, pale from the pull and scrape of his teeth, darkening, spit-shiny, swollen and full. Chilton has the sudden urge to backhand him across that vicious, lying mouth, then kiss him searingly, slamming him back against the wall. But it's an impossibility. Even if it wasn't an untenable risk, Graham in the least of his restraints, allowing for the full and brutal use of his hands, a kiss would say too much.

In his fight to keep quiet, Graham's been overrun and forced to surrender. Inhibition ripped away from him, he's gasping, sighing, wounded little moans spilling from his bitten, reddened lips. He's lost in himself, in the thrall of his needy cock. The fingers of one hand are curled around his shaft, his hips working, each thrust punctuated by a sharp little gasp. He's panting, restless, stroking himself with his other hand, twisting his wrist for friction, his breathing stuttering as his short, ragged nails rasp against vulnerable skin. As his pace speeds up, he starts to become careless, handing himself with a roughness that borders on self-flagellation. It's hypnotic to watch, his cock full and throbbing, obviously aching, livid red from his attentions. He tightens his fist, choking his swelling head, a breaking moan tearing out of him. An expression close to anguish transfigures his face as his touch becomes something between abuse and worship. His other hand reaches down to grasp his testicles, still concealed beneath his jumpsuit. Hard to see exactly what he's doing to himself, but he's whimpering now, head thrown back, a look of almost mediative concentration on his face. God, he must be close. He's whispering to himself, _yes, yes fuck yes,_ a shaking hand closing around his base again. Lifting half out of his chair, his manacles rattling, Graham fucks his fist, hard and driving, starting to unravel. Caught up in himself, he seems to have entirely forgotten Chilton in the room with him.

Chilton clears his throat loudly, a new spike of harsh resentment lancing up his spine. "That's no way to go about it," he says, his own voice abrupt and strange. Graham blinks up at him, his eyes unfocused. Chilton strides over to him. "You'll chafe," he says. "Here, give me your hand." When Graham makes a halfhearted move in that direction, Chilton seizes his wrist and spits into his palm. He feels himself leering at the revulsion on Graham's face. "That should make it easier, shouldn't it? Go on."

With a hiss of breath between his teeth, Graham closes his sullied hand around himself, and from the way his shoulders creep up, Chilton can just about feel his skin crawling. _Yes._ He will not stand by and let himself be overlooked, not now, not this time. Graham may hate him and harbor thoughts of revenge, but at least he will not forget. Graham's face is drawn, his breathing ragged, pathetic little sounds spilling out of him, humiliation and disgust. Color in his cheeks again, his movements jerky and reluctant, but he can't keep his hands off himself. His cock is flushed and eager, beginning to leak against his soiled palm. No matter what he tells himself, he wants this, or, at least, he's too far gone to stop, and that makes Chilton ache up against the starched front of his suit pants. _Yes!_

But Graham's eyes close again and his face goes strangely blank, serene. He's sinking down into his own mind, still trying to escape this.

"No!" Chilton snaps. "Eyes open. Look at me while you get yourself off. Look. At. Me."

When Graham does, Chilton instantly regrets it. Those blue eyes pierce through him, peeling him apart, layer by layer. Even under Gideon's scalpel, he didn't feel this exposed.

"Why are you doing this, Frederick?" Graham asks. His voice only wavers slightly, and though he slows enough to get his breath, he never stops touching himself. "What do you think it'll prove? Do you picture yourself doing this to the ingrates who have been given all the things you've been denied? The ones who look down on you, call you a hack and discuss you in hushed voices in the hallowed halls of schools that never wanted you?" Chilton's bitterest and most guarded thoughts, torn from him, dragged out into the light. He even hears some of his own cadence and syntax expressed in Graham's voice, between his gasps and breathy little moans. "This'd show them, wouldn't it?" he asks, the words becoming ever more clipped and precise, a stinging mockery, "And what it would show them is that you are just as degenerate as they always thought."

The blood drains from Chilton's face. "Be quiet!" he spits. He grabs Graham by the hair and forces his head back, bending his body in an unnatural arch, unbalancing him.

Graham shudders but keeps his eyes open and locked on Chilton's face. "They were right about you," he says, his voice panted and strained. "Or, almost right. Who would've thought you'd ever sink this low?"

"Shut up!" Chilton slaps him hard, gripping his hair to keep him still. Graham gasps, his mouth falling open. Instinctively, he reaches for his reddening cheek, and Chilton grabs him by the chain and drags his hands back down into his lap. "Don't you stop," he hisses "Stop and I'll make you regret it." He jerks Graham's undershirt up and rakes his nails across his chest. Graham whines and tries to twist away, muscles tensing, nipples tightening, bright pink welts blossoming over his sternum and ribs. The marks are nothing to his red and straining cock, and they fade down quickly, leaving no trace on his sweet, smooth skin. Chilton's scar flares under his clothes, and he snarls, strikes Graham again, a ringing slap across his flat stomach. This time, instead of flinching away, Graham arches up into his hand, yearning for the touch, any touch, as stupid and senseless as an animal in rut. Made mindless by his need, defenseless, a willing vessel. And Chilton, not so far behind, gives into his own need, unable to deny himself any longer. He's drawn to Graham, lured by him, biting the shell of his ear, sucking hard at his neck, pinching a nipple, twisting, groping, manhandling him, all the time yanking on his hair. And Graham whines and moans, beyond words now, sensation taking him by storm. 

Chilton tugs his earlobe with his teeth and jerks his head back one last time. "Come," he growls against Graham's skin. "Do it, you filthy son of a bitch." And Graham does, shuddering, a half-choked scream escaping him, tears of exertion spilling down his cheeks. He comes all over himself like the dirty slut he is, coating his fist, spurting across his stomach, a few drops splattering onto his face.

When Graham begins to quiet and his convulsions subside, Chilton fishes in his pocket and throws a wadded-up Kleenex at him. "Clean yourself up," he says, as brusquely as he can manage, trying to hide the strain in his voice. He keeps glancing at Graham from the corners of his eyes, watching him come down, one hand curled protectively around his softening cock, slumped in the ruins of his dignity. He's spent, exhausted, splayed out and loose, thoroughly used, painfully beautiful. And Chilton can't stay in this room with him much longer. All he wants in the world is to stand and stare, finish himself right here, but he needs to hold out until he makes it to his office bathroom.

He straightens his collar, smoothes his tie, fighting to keep his composure. "I want you to make yourself available to me," he says, the words coming all in a rush. "I'd make use of you as I saw fit, and you'd be secure in the knowledge that anything transpiring within these walls would be kept in the strictest confidence."

Graham is covered with semen and struggling to get his breath back, but he manages a sardonic little smile. "You'll keep my secrets if I keep yours?"

Chilton looks at him for as long as he dares. "Yes, Mr. Graham, your... secrets are safe with me."

"You better make sure of that, Frederick," Graham says, and Chiton stops in the doorway and turns back. Graham's voice is soft and flat, without inflection, "If Hannibal ever finds out about this, he'll kill you." And it isn't a taunt or a threat. The words just issue from his mouth, and he looks as though he'd like to reel them back. He can't help himself. How many times has he made the same accusations, over and over, even after he knew he would never be believed? And that, more than anything, nearly freezes the heated blood in Chilton's veins. Charm, focus, ruthlessness. Wouldn't a pure sociopath and consummate manipulator distance himself from a tactic that had so clearly proved a liability? Why persist with this agenda, and go to such lengths to keep it secret? There's no sense to it. Graham's crimes were committed with insight, flexibility, and a brutal sort of practicality, even the unforeseeable exploited and turned to his advantage. His profile is absolutely consistent once you see through all the lies, except when it comes to this. 

If he means for anyone to believe in his innocence, why blame Hannibal Lecter? 

"Give it up, Will," Chilton says, his voice hollow and unconvincing in his own ears. "I think we've moved beyond the need for smokescreens, don't you?" Then, reluctantly, "And... if Hannibal is what you claim -- a man who committed multiple murders and set you up to take the fall -- if that is what he is capable of, why would anything I could do to you matter to him?"

That sardonic little smile again, but Graham's eyes are weary. "Oh, I don't delude myself that he cares what happens to me. But I am your patient, Dr. Chilton. And treating a patient like this... Hannibal would consider it rude."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may do a followup to this where Chilton continues to do things to Will while trying to wrap his head around the idea that he might not actually be guilty. Also more restraints, and Brown might be in it, and yes, I did already start writing the damn thing, I just don't know if I'll have the steam to finish it. So, keep an eye out for that, as well as the many other fics I may or may not have in the works, in the coming year.
> 
> As always, hope you enjoyed!


End file.
